


Cedere Nescio

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [8]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: History, Ireland, M/M, Monks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 09:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: On the third day shortly after they finish a mid-day meal and resume their trek, he realizes that something is off, and that it has nothing to do with the dark clouds building on the horizon where they can just see the mountains of An Bhograch as they traverse a landscape of low rolling hills, boggy glens, and light forest.





	Cedere Nescio

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is what-if labor of love, not lucre.

_Cedere nescio -- I know not how to yield._

* * *

The first day of travel sees them bedded down with the family of Aoife's youngest sister. Aileen is hungry for news from the wider world, being that she and her family live in a small village at the edge of the deep woods. Earlier this year, a blow to the head during a clan feud left her husband with the wits of a small child. Her oldest is a lad of 14 who's more than a little eager to have revenge and prove himself a man. He _might_ know how to use his shepherd's crook in a pinch, but he's no warrior. Aileen is right to worry about that one and what the future holds for him.

They end up staying three nights and help lay in fresh thatch on the barn.

And, though Aileen and her family will not starve -- they've enough close kin in the village for that -- they are only a bit of bad luck (or rash act from a boy) from losing what they have left.

Diarmuid leaves her three silver pennies before they head down the less traveled path that leads out of the village. The one that leads to the western woods.

He knows from experience that the key to traveling through any hostile territory is to have a plan. Finding a way to blend in with local people helps, too. Unfortunately, he and Diarmuid have no chance of passing as woodsmen out for the day to harvest some timber or to check their snares. (A pity they have no axe. It would be useful in country like this.) 

He cautions Diarmuid to silence as they enter the shade of the trees. He scans the trail and the margins for any sign of recent travel. He finds a place for them to spend the night well before sunset.

~oo(0)oo~

The first night in the woods is a quiet, tense affair. He finds that he misses the sound of Diarmuid's voice nattering on as his mind darts from idea to idea. They sup on plain brose, whose blandness is nicely countered by Aoife's rich and salty cheese. Before the last light, he scatters dried twigs around the margins of their camp so that anybody trying to sneak up on them is likely to make a noise. He douses the flames and indicates that they should take care of any necessary business amongst the ashes.

They sleep in shifts through the chilly night. Years of rising for prayers mean that they are both well schooled in waking several times during the night. 

(He is a bit chagrined when Diarmuid rouses him from a half-drowse in the middle of the night. The journey is taxing his precious newly won strength, and it's sharp reminder that he is not yet back to full endurance.)

~oo(0)oo~

On the third day shortly after they finish a mid-day meal and resume their trek, he realizes that something is off, and that it has nothing to do with the dark clouds building on the horizon where they can just see the mountains of An Bhograch as they traverse a landscape of low rolling hills, boggy glens, and light forest. The feeling of wrongness grows until he can hold back no longer, and, staying Diarmuid with a hand on his shoulder as they prepare to cross a briskly flowing stream, he leans over as if steadying himself and whispers rustily in Diarmuid's ear, "It is too quiet. Be wary." Diarmuid looks at him, eyes huge, blinks, and nods solemnly.

The attack comes as they're about to enter a low, wooded valley -- through the drizzle he hears the muted sound of a bowstring snapping, followed by a curse, and a quick glance around shows three men, one mounted, two on foot, coming at them across the exposed slope of the hill. 

He shoves Diarmuid towards the trees and they scramble off the track through the undergrowth before splashing up a brook but an armspan wide. The start of their trail will be easy to find, but the horseman will lose all advantage in the underbrush and low hanging tree limbs, and the men-at-arms will not fare much better covering such uneven ground.

He and Diarmuid end up hiding behind twin oaks -- the patriarchs of this otherwise young woods -- separated by the stream, Diarmuid praying the Pater Noster under his breath until he catches his eye and shhh's him. He can see Diarmuid swallow hard and grip his staff, knuckles white. Though his own heart hammers in his ears, his mind goes still and quiet, ready for what's to come.

He hears the sound of the horse moving through the underbrush -- to Diarmuid's left, and he motions him to stay still -- as simultaneously he hears careful footsteps in the water between them and broken twigs to his right.

It begins when, with a shout and a spin so fast it's a blur of motion Diarmuid wheels and with his staff strikes the horse hard across the nose. With a bellowing whinny of pain it shys and rears, throwing its rider, whose foot does not clear the iron as it bolts --

\-- he spins low and strikes, catching the knee of the man trying to come up on the right, and the red rage of battle descends.

~oo(0)oo~

"It's me! It's me, my friend, it's your Diarmuid --" hands cup his face and pull him in until their foreheads touch and their deep, ragged breaths mix. "We're safe. Be calm. Be calm be calm becalm becalmbecalmbecalm --" the last bit of little more than a breath of air brushing across his lips.

In a split second he pulls it all together. Diarmuid in front of him, his black eyes wide with fear, his hair a tumbledown riot of curls framing his face. The horse stands a few feet away, a headless body still has its foot caught in the iron. He holds a bloody falchion in his hand. (One -- oh Lord have mercy -- he almost swung at Diarmuid.) Several yards behind them are the bodies of two men, dead because he knows he killed one with a lucky strike to the heart, the other's nose he broke, swept his feet out from under him, then ended with a crushing blow to the throat.

Diarmuid's hands cradle his face, his dark eyes huge and filled with a mix of love and worry, but they're alive, Diarmuid's alive and uninjured and in that instant raging torrents of relief and joy flow through him --

\-- he kisses Diarmuid hungrily before he realizes what he's done.

Shock and shame drop him to his knees when his mind catches up with his body.

A hand, gentle but firm reaches out and strokes his hair several times, fingers eventually tangling into it, gently guiding his head back. Diarmuid's eyes blaze, but not with anger and condemnation, as they meet his. "My friend. I --" he catches himself, gulps, and looks away before he continues, "Come. We have work to do."

~oo(0)oo~

The two men-at-arms and the mounted sergeant wear DeMerville's device embroidered on their tabards. 

They have neither the means nor the time to bury the men. In the end, he strips them of anything useful, drags their bodies to the stream and weighs them down with what rocks and downed tree limbs he can find. The chill of the water will keep the rot at bay and hopefully buy some additional time beyond a simple masking of their scent. 

The fact that the men do not carry provisions for more than a day (and perhaps one rough night) means that DeMerville or one of his captains is close by.

There's nothing for it but to ride the horse as quickly as they dare in the failing light and the increasing rain. He puts Diarmuid in the saddle proper and with some effort swings up behind the cantle, the horse wickering softly in protest at the combined weight. He takes the reins in one hand and with the other, reaches around to grab the high pommel, his head over Diarmuid's shoulder, and Diarmuid's back to his chest. A frisson of pleasure races through him at having Diarmuid close this way.

A part of him says he should feel guilt and shame at this but he does not.

A part of him says he should feel fear at being hunted by DeMerville, but he does not.

He only knows that, right now, nothing has ever felt righter than cradling/shielding/holding Diarmuid in his arms and drinking in the nearness of him.

He clicks his tongue and squeezes with his heels and the horse walks on as the skies open and the rain comes down in torrents.

They will need to find a place to shelter, and soon.


End file.
